Each day begins with

The type of thoughts that

I’d rather not disclose because

You may think i’m ****** or

Just kind of indisposed

I read somewhere the gene for

Artistry carries a Foe

A higher predisposition for these

Thoughts that make me groan and

Some say this disordered thinking simply

Means I’m contemplative even

Intelligent or

Just closed off to the thought of being

Content

Aint that a word

The idea to be content to be

Ok with all the things i’ve done

Satisfied with my work enough to

Say it’s good enough?

No not something i can do

As an Artist I spend my days lying in

Contempt of my own mind

Brilliantly undefined to the point of

Madness

Painting for hours on end

Looking up when the suns gone down

Massaging numbness from cold fingers

Writing pages by lamplight

Tearing papers in frustration

Whitewashing paintings in a fit of

Inadequacy

As an Artist

Nothing you do will ever be the best

Not even your best

A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities

If youre like me you know

Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better

Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting

What you were given

But every moment working to improve is hellish

Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and

Smudged up paintings